I found my laptop in the dining room and carried it up to the roof.
LCC: It’s eight a.m. here. Just past nine p.m. where you are. How are you, Aidan? Do you feel any better?
AD: ren …
I gasped when Aidan’s word showed up on my screen. Got up from the chair and laid the laptop on the small table next to me. Backed away. Adrenaline made my heart race, and confusion numbed my brain. I was so new to Facebook that I didn’t know how to process the single word that had appeared under the lines I’d written. A message sent awhile ago that had just landed out of cyberspace? Or … was he actually there, speaking to me in real time?
I took stock of where I stood and rolled my eyes at my stupidity. A grown woman on a roof in Nepal cowering from a word she had read on her laptop. If Aidan was truly sitting at his computer on the other side of the globe, as I suspected he was … to my novice mind, it somehow felt more substantial. More real. Aidan was there. Right there—beyond my screen.
The realization sent me forward again. As I picked up the laptop and settled back into my chair, I saw more words from Aidan appear. My breath caught. He was speaking to me in that moment from a world away. I was speaking directly with Aidan—no delay. The notion intimidated and exhilarated me.
I watched more words unfurl across the screen, then took a deep breath and typed, the pseudoproximity stunning me. Tears stung my eyes. This felt—finally—like a reunion.
AD: ren … heart’s beating fast here. are you on right now?
LCC: Yes. I’m a little unnerved.
AD: because?
LCC: I don’t know. This feels … different.
AD: different bad?
LCC: Different great. In a reach-through-the-screen-and-hug-Aidan kind of way.
AD: easy there. these things aren’t built for that.
LCC: Giggle. First real-time giggle. Why haven’t we done this before?
AD: those pesky time zones.
LCC: Maybe a little trepidation too. This is …
AD: real.
LCC: Yeah. Real.
AD: geez, ren.
LCC: Aidan, how are you feeling? I spent half the night up worrying about you.
AD: better than when i wrote earlier. still fuzzy, but less than before. i’m just worn out, ren. managed to finish multimedia self-portrait this afternoon, though. in ten-minute increments, then back to the couch for a bit. felt disjointed and i didn’t like it, but i got the thing done. let me see if i can take a pic and send it.
LCC: I’m pretty sure cancer patients are supposed to focus on beating the odds, not launch art collections and plan publishing projects.
AD: i’m pretty sure their friends are supposed to support whatever floats their boat. (kidding—there needs to be a sarcasm emoticon on this site.)
LCC: No need for labels. I’ve spoken Aidanese long enough to interpret it accurately, I think. Still—I wish you’d give yourself more time to feel better before pushing yourself to paint.
AD: that’s the point, ren. i’ve learned a thing or two about time since labor day. biggest one is that you don’t know how much there’s left. i don’t want to squander a second of it. just in case.
LCC: Sigh. How do you wrap your mind around this?
AD: what—knowing i’m dying?
LCC: I want to say, “Stop saying that,” but …
AD: but this is my reality. right after i was diagnosed, i had this romantic notion that i’d just go on living like nothing was wrong. i’d do the art thing and travel the globe and love and learn and laugh, and when my time came, i’d just drop dead and be done.
LCC: Aidan.
AD: and then i decided that i could do most of that and still try to show this beast who’s boss.
LCC: You’ve never been very good at sitting back and taking it.
AD: don’t take to threats very well either.
LCC: Who cares for you when you’re not doing well?
AD: i think i told you i live two doors down from my parents. if i need anything, i call them.
LCC: What if something happens and you can’t call?
AD: i have a sneakin’ suspicion my dad installed nanny cams in all the rooms so they can keep tabs on me.
LCC: Seriously?
AD: geez, ren. always the gullible one. no, not seriously. i’ll find a way of getting their attention if i need to. (you get an f in aidanese, by the way.)
LCC: Think you’ll be able to get to the hospital for your scan tomorrow?
AD: counting on it.
LCC: Heart?
AD: heart’s okay. my mind tells me it will be good to know where things stand. don’t want that pea-sized spot getting any grape ambitions.
LCC: Smiling. It won’t. I’ve been praying it into submission.
AD: god, ren. this feels good.
LCC: Yup.
AD: i wish you were here.
LCC: Not sure how to answer that sufficiently, with just words on a screen. This is where art might say it better than words can. Try that one, will you? Paint something that says how intensely I’d love to be there for you. In person. None of this technology needed.
AD: don’t cut it.
LCC: I’m not.
AD: it found you, didn’t it?
LCC: Color and texture.
AD: just like that?
LCC: Spit it out.
AD: i’m leaning toward … okay, this is weird. driftwood. greenish-brown.
LCC: Battered?
AD: polished. big nuance there. battered into something better.
LCC: Again with the imagery. You’re going to have to become an artist or something.
AD: see what i mean about time being too short? couldn’t possibly capture it all.
LCC: But you can’t be sure. Right? You could have years and just not know it.
AD: i keep trying to convince the docs of that fact, but they give me their whatever-makes-you-feel-better look and move on to other topics.
LCC: What do they know?
AD: smirking. yeah, what do they know?
LCC: You ready to get some sleep?
AD: got to admit it. i’m tired right now. last spurt of creating might have overdone it a bit.
LCC: Plus the exhilaration of “talking” in real time with me, of course.
AD: of course. especially that.
LCC: Get some sleep. You have an important day tomorrow.
AD: but i’d rather keep talking to you.
LCC: There’ll be time for more of this. Lots of it.
AD: optimist.
LCC: Good night, Aidan. Let me know how tomorrow goes? I’m rooting for you.
AD: always have. deserved or not.
LCC: Still do.
AD: still, good night, ren.
I packed my messenger bag with what I’d need for today’s classes and headed out the door. And I thought of Aidan.
I got my bike out of the crowded shed by the gate, knowing I’d have to ride it through town to my bus stop, as another fuel shortage had limited taxi service. And I thought of Aidan.
I pedaled down the busy street to the main artery that curved through downtown Kathmandu to the place where I’d catch my bus to Bhaktapur, pushed hard across intersections where no vehicles slowed for cross-traffic, narrowly avoided pedestrians who stepped off the sidewalk with no concern for oncoming bikes and cars, held my breath as I rode through black billows of pollution belched out by trucks and cars alike. And still I thought of Aidan.
I boarded the bus with a layer of city dirt on my skin and stood in unbearably close quarters with other passengers crammed into the aisle. And still I thought of Aidan.
I walked ten minutes from the bus stop to the language school, hurried down the hall to my classroom, and launched into a bland lesson on reflective verbs, complete with excerpts from classic literature and a rudimentary PowerPoint I’d thrown together the night before. And still I thought about Aidan.
At the end of my fourth class, I lingered for a moment making small talk wi
th young people whose grasp of English far surpassed my grasp of Nepali, asking them about their families and their plans for the coming semester, and still … I thought about Aidan.
I was sure I made it up the hills faster and wove my way through the horn-saturated traffic more agilely on the return trip, urged forward by my desire to get home and write to Aidan so the message would be there for him when he woke up—before he headed into New York for his scan.
The electricity was out when I entered the house, but the laptop had been plugged in and was partially charged. I accessed the neighbors’ Wi-Fi and logged in to Facebook. Four in the afternoon in Nepal, just after five in the morning in New York.
I was about to start typing when …
AD: ren.
LCC: Aidan? I just triple-checked my time-zone converter. What are you doing up so early?
AD: i went to bed early, remember?
LCC: You should be sleeping.
AD: time enough for that when i’m dead.
LCC: Consider yourself glared at.
AD: a little gallows humor from the guy whose life expectancy depends on heading into a tube later this morning. i want to hit the paints for a while before i go.
LCC: How are you feeling now that you’ve slept a little?
AD: honestly?
LCC: Of course.
AD: i’m a little freaked out about this one.
LCC: More than others?
AD: i’m five months out. last chemo treatment over. if there’s no improvement … worse, if there’s growth … not much more in the arsenal to throw at it.
LCC: Sigh. And you’re sitting there alone in the wee hours contemplating the unknown.
AD: lying here. and yes.
LCC: I’m sorry, Aidan.
AD: actually, you’re helping.
LCC: Because words appearing like magic on a screen are ever so comforting.
AD: because they’re you. they make you here. when are you going to stop being you and tell your husband to give you the bleepin’ tickets?
LCC: Bleepin’, huh? My, how you’ve changed.
AD: again—just trying to be sensitive to my missionary friend.
LCC: Did you ever in your wildest dreams imagine I’d become a missionary?
AD: sure. right after i pictured you becoming a nun.
LCC: Laughing. Not sure that’s a compliment.
AD: sam should be happy my first prediction was a dud.
LCC: I don’t know. Those tickets caused the kind of blowout that might have made him wish for celibacy … but that’s over now. We’re staying put. I hate it. But it is what it is.
AD: probably the right thing.
LCC: I’m sorry you’re scared, Aidan. I know I would be too.
AD: ren, i’ve got a bad feeling … like it’s about time for my luck to run out.
LCC: You’ll have answers in a few hours, and then you’ll know how you should feel. If my prayers all the way over here in Nepal have anything to do with it, you’re going to be celebrating with a snifter of something expensive.
AD: i’ll drink to that.
LCC: Remember when you made me taste vodka?
AD: i remember you spitting it out all over me.
LCC: Good thing it’s odorless.
AD: good thing i liked you. like. present tense.
LCC: And I like that we get to talk in present tense again.
AD: me too. geez, ren. me too.
LCC: What kind of piece are you working on? Wish I could sit and watch you paint like I used to.
AD: yeah, i should probably drag myself out of bed and get sketching. i think it’s called ‘still’ … and you’re invited into my art any time.
LCC: I miss you, Aidan. I think I miss being young with you too.
AD: same here. you have no idea.
LCC: I’ll let you get to your painting.
AD: thanks, ren.
LCC: Please, please, please let me know when you’re home again. Sam’s gone and Ryan’s in and out. I’ll check often. Praying you through, Aidan. Still.
AD: bye …
I sat by the laptop awhile longer, rereading the two previous exchanges with Aidan and wondering why we hadn’t chatted in real time sooner. I loved his long, descriptive messages and the way he wove our history into what he wrote, but there was something about the concurrence of chat that seemed to have decreased the distance just as it had increased the emotions.
I was surprised at how deeply I felt his fear as today’s scan approached. And how intimately I felt the painting he was creating even as I sat there contemplating the technology that had brought us back together.
I started to pray for him—more an instinct than a conscious thing. But something stopped me. A feeling I couldn’t quite identify. Something that simultaneously shied away and stomped its foot. I tried to pray again, but the words in my mind felt stilted.
Ryan came slamming through the front door a few minutes after five and went straight to the fridge, as always. I put on my mom-after-school hat and performed our daily ritual.
“Hi, Ryan.”
“Hi.”
“There’s leftover fruit salad in the green Tupperware at the back.”
“Got it.”
“Steven’s mom called. She said they’re postponing your next game because the other team has lice.”
“That’s fine.”
“Dad got off okay this morning. He said to say good-bye to you.”
“Cool.”
I hesitated only briefly. “Ryan, do you miss your dad when he’s gone?”
That got his attention. He looked up from shoving fruit salad into his mouth with a soupspoon. Suspicion drew his eyebrows together. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
I was getting used to his my-mother-the-idiot eyerolls, but this one seemed particularly heartfelt.
“I guess I wonder because …” I hesitated. “You never really seem to enjoy it when he’s home, and you don’t particularly seem to care when he leaves, so …”
“Maybe it’s easier that way.”
I hadn’t really expected a response from him, so when it came, it brought me up short.
“Easier. What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged and shoved another spoonful into his mouth. “Just easier,” he said around it.
I watched him chew, buoyed that we were talking, but frozen by the surprise of this exchange. “I know it takes awhile to adapt every time.”
He swallowed and shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?” I could tell he was angling to leave.
Ryan dropped the empty Tupperware in the sink. “If you don’t really care, you don’t really miss it. Right?” He looked at me and I saw flashes in my mind of all he’d lost with our move to Nepal. His classmates, his teammates, his neighborhood friends, his grandparents, our house … his universe. “It’s just easier,” he said again, his voice tinged with cynicism. Then he was gone.
thirteen
EVEN THE PILEUP OF UNANSWERED MAIL COULDN’T KEEP MY mind focused during the first evening of Sam’s absence. As I wrote thank-you notes to our donors and graded the tests of an intermediate language class, my mind was torn between Ryan’s final words to me and Aidan’s impending verdict.
If there was one thing we had taught our son—quite unwittingly—it was that loved ones leave. Or that we leave them. We’d robbed him of stability when we’d made the decision to move to Kathmandu, then we’d ended up staying in our hometown for nearly five years, in an uncomfortable state of suspension between impetus and completion, with no specific end goal in sight. We’d lived in a temporariness that discouraged investment in any form of newness and generally kept us from a sense of presence in the here and now.
Eventually, we’d taken off for a country none of us had seen before, leaving limbo behind and clinging to the oft-repeated expectation that things would settle down once we got there. We’d get installed in our new home, we’d make friends
, and nothing much would change for the next four years. But that wasn’t the way things had happened, and an eleven-year-old who had lost stability, then lost his friends, had found in his new world even less predictability. Sam’s three-week trips away from home for nine months of the year had probably felt like the last straw to a boy who had already lost so much.
“It’s just easier,” he’d said. Easier, indeed. Part of me envied Ryan the ability to switch off his needs. It struck me that I’d actually done something similar with Sam. I couldn’t be dependent anymore, not with the ministry and absences that stretched our lives thin. I felt my need like a self-perpetuating, diminishing force. Embittering too. And at some point in the past few months, I’d squelched it.
Then Aidan had found me, and in the reuniting I’d discovered again the nourishing power of connection—and had more fully understood the damage of its absence.
I stayed downstairs until past eleven, waiting for Ryan to come home from wherever he was. The part of Kathmandu where we lived was mostly safe, but I still didn’t like my thirteen-year-old biking through town after dark. I lit some candles when the electricity flickered out and moved two large cans of frozen water from the freezer to the fridge, hanging the usual “Don’t open the fridge while the power is out” sign on its handle. I put on a sweatshirt and wrapped up in a blanket. Then I waited, laptop open, for Ryan or Aidan—whoever would appear first.
AD: ren?
LCC: Aidan.
AD: you’re there …
LCC: Been waiting all day. How did the scan go?
AD: long. and repeated.
LCC: They repeated the scan?
AD: twice.
LCC: That doesn’t sound good.
AD: it’s not.
Halted breath. Dread like a physical force descended over me. I didn’t know what to write. I couldn’t see his face or read his expression. Helplessness wrung me. Not for the first time, I cursed the distance and the cold, sterile, impersonal glare of my laptop’s screen. And even as I asked another question, I felt a tentacled fear grip me. It took him too long to continue.
LCC: Tell me what’s going on, Aidan.
AD: … i’m sorry. not quite sure i want to write this.
LCC: Aidan.
AD: not because i don’t want to tell you. it’s just that … writing it makes it real.
Of Stillness and Storm Page 20